


'til eternity passes away

by talkingismylife



Series: if i could turn back time 'verse [1]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, Hurt and Very Little Comfort, M/M, Time Travel, makes lo feel really bad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2021-01-31 09:17:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21443839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkingismylife/pseuds/talkingismylife
Summary: Johnny would become a man in no time, he’d grow to insist on going by John instead. He’d go off to university, get a degree, fall in love, start a career. He’d have a family and a life one day, be his own person. He’d be so much more than Arthur ever could have imagined. He’d be a good man; Roger had assured him.He prayed it was true.or, the joger week fic i only just finished
Relationships: Arthur Deacon/Lilian Deacon, John Deacon/Roger Taylor
Series: if i could turn back time 'verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1545964
Comments: 20
Kudos: 52
Collections: Joger Week 2019





	'til eternity passes away

**Author's Note:**

  * For [devereauxing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/devereauxing/gifts).

Arthur Deacon considered himself an educated man, and a rational one. He lived a normal life with his wife and two children, worked a normal job, and made sure to be home every evening by six for supper. He volunteered at their church, raised money for charities at Christmas, and was known to be the man to call when you were snowed in your home. He liked smoking his cigarette by the fire while he read his evening paper, tinkering in the garage with the little bits and bobs of wiring he’d find, and enjoyed himself a science fiction novel every now and again. 

He was, and rightfully proud to be, a good upstanding citizen and neighbor. 

Which was why he did his best to keep to the shadows as he made his way down the street, tucking himself into alleys and doorways to keep hidden. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to be seen, it was more so that he didn’t want the man he was visiting to be recognized as someone with whom he might associate. On his shoulder, the messenger bag he’d borrowed from his son weighed heavy against his hip, bumping against him with every broad step he took. 

Checking just once, to ensure that no one had followed him, he ducked down the alley between the old pharmacy and Rupert’s pub, squinting in the dark to try and make out the shapes of homeless men in the dark. There, a flash of a match illuminated the corner of a cardboard shanty revealed a dirtied face, glaring over the cherry of a cigarette. Arthur turned away, shamed at being caught starting. 

He should be accustomed to the sight, by now. It was only his sixth time visiting, but that was time enough to have learned that those who stared were not welcomed in this particular alley. 

A sharp whistle cut through the night, startling Arthur from where he stood. 

“‘E’s out walkin’,” one of the men called with a jerk of his head back towards the street. “Not ‘ere yet.” 

“Oh,” said Arthur, inarticulate. “Do you know when he might be back?” 

The man scoffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “No. You know him, always off walkin’, never where ‘e should be.” 

“Right,” Arthur nodded. There was an awkward moment, a pause, before the other man took pity on him. 

“Think ‘e’s tryin’ Culpepper tonight,” the man said carefully. “Caught a glance at his map the other night, think it’s the most recent one.” 

Arthur nodded again. Culpepper wasn’t too far, and it was by a decent pub where Arthur knew they wouldn’t ask questions if they went in for a bite and a pint. 

“Thank you,” Arthur said, digging through his pocket for some change. He handed the man a few coppers and pence, wincing that he didn’t have more. The man said nothing, returning to the week old paper he’d stretched across his lap. 

Awkwardly, Arthur made his way back to the street, again keeping his head ducked low, though he told himself it was to protect against the winter chill. It was an easy walk, made quicker by his urgency to find Culpepper Street. 

He didn’t have to look long once he got there. 

He was hard to miss; dressed in a large coat far too big for his small stature and boots that had seen better days, the man in question was the only one walking down the street, his head ducked to look at a crumbled stack of papers in his hand, muttering to himself with each step. Once, Arthur would have crossed the street rather than engage with such a sorry sight, but that was before. 

“Roger,” Arthur called, raising a hand in greeting. Roger stopped in place, squinting over at Arthur, returning his wave with a smile full of trepidation. 

“Hullo, Mr. Deacon,” Roger said carefully, folding his stacks of paper and stuffing them into a hand sewn pocket on the inside of his jacket. 

Arthur carefully picked his way towards Roger, weary of their surroundings. “Any luck tonight?” 

The look he received was scathing, but fair, as Roger opened his arms wide, gesturing at himself sardonically. “Still here, aren’t I?” he drawled, arching one eye. “Figured if I had any luck at all I’d be long gone.” 

Arthur winced. It was fair to assume that both of them wanted Roger to be lucky, though for different reasons. Reasons Arthur struggled to come to terms with most nights. 

“I figured I could buy you something warm?” Arthur tried, digging his hands into his pockets as he fought the urge to scuff his toe into the pavement. It was something he was always lecturing Johnny on, how to stand with confidence, not to show weakness. From the look in Roger’s eye, nostalgic and pained, it was something he’d probably failed in achieving. He winced, looking away. 

“I should keep walking,” Roger said slowly, his hands subconsciously going back to the inside pocket of his jacket, a frown on his face. “But, if we were quick—” 

“Yes, yes, of course,” Arthur rushed. “I’ve got an early morning tomorrow, anyways, and I’ve borrowed Johnny’s bag from his newspaper route—” At Johnny’s name, he cut himself short, his mouth closing with a click as it was now Roger’s turn to wince. “Sorry,” Arthur said, lamely, as an afterthought.

Roger waved away his apology, stepping closer to Arthur. It took all of Arthur’s strength not to step back away from him, the terror of what Roger was still ingrained in his mind. Roger had explained, that fateful first meeting when Arthur had stumbled back away from him in a panic, that it was nothing more than an old wives tale. Roger posed no more danger to Arthur than Arthur did to Roger. Still, Arthur wasn’t willing to risk it. 

“There’s a pub near here. They make a good shepherd’s pie, if you’d like?” Arthur suggested, tossing his thumb over his shoulder. Roger nodded, again, his hand going to his pocket. 

“By Regent and Parade?” Roger asked, following Arthur, two paces behind. “I know the place.” 

Of course, the owner, Thomas, was well known for handing out hot cups of tea and warmed toasties in the worst of the winter to the homeless, pressing the cups and sandwiches into their hands with little fear of who he might be touching. It should come as no surprise that Roger would have grown familiar with him. 

They walked in silence, save for Roger’s occasional odd mumble. From the corner of his eye, Arthur could see his hand twitch, as though he wanted nothing more than to pull forth the stack of papers and continue scribbling down upon his map, retracing his steps over and over with pavement and ink. 

Arthur’s stomach churned as he thought about how this was Roger’s life, an endless cycle of walking and searching, memorizing the steps he’d taken over and over until he either died or found what he was looking for. _Who_ he was looking for. 

Johnny, his Johnny, only not. Another Johnny altogether, from a different future than one Arthur could ever imagine. He had so many questions, questions he didn’t know if he wanted answers to. He was terrified of what he would find, already terrified to know that the life he’d pictured for his son was so terribly different than that he was getting. He thought of Johnny, older, wiser; Johnny: a man, sitting and waiting for his soulmate to find his way back to him, no way of knowing what had happened to Roger, or where he’d gone—_when_ he’d gone. 

He felt sick to his stomach. 

Next to him, Roger paused, his hand twitching towards his jacket again. 

“Sorry,” he said, voice pinched and rushed. “Sorry, sorry, but this, it’s new, I haven’t gone this way—” 

“Go ahead,” Arthur said as kindly as he could. He could never fault Roger for doing everything in his power to get back to his son. “We can wait.” 

Roger nodded in thanks before pulling out his map, pen scratching against the paper as he sketched down the route they’ve taken, muttering under his breath. “Regent— pharmacy, grocery, boutique. Twenty-five steps, clean, no feeling...closer…” 

It was depressing to watch; Arthur looked away, fighting back the urge to clear his throat. Roger finished quickly, and for that he was thankful. He couldn’t imagine watching more, he didn’t think he could stomach it. 

“Shall we?” Roger asked as he again tucked the papers away. 

Arthur cleared his throat. “Yes, of course.” 

They walked together, Roger’s eyes darting every which way, memorizing the stretch of street, Arthur memorizing Roger himself. He wanted to remember everything about him, so that he could tell Johnny everything, tell him how hard Roger was working. 

The thought smacked him in his face. Johnny should have known, shouldn’t he? That Roger had fallen through an Anomaly, that Roger was trapped and unable to get back. Wouldn’t he have told him? 

It terrified him to think that maybe Johnny had known, and didn’t say anything. That maybe Arthur himself had never said anything. The questions stuck in his throat when he tried to ask. He didn’t want to know the answer. 

“Here?” Roger asked, jerking his head in the direction of the pub’s front door. Arthur had been so wrapped up in himself that he hadn’t even noticed they’d made it. 

“Yes,” he cleared his throat, repeating himself more clearly. Roger nodded, letting Arthur lead the way in, grabbing a booth tucked away in the back where he’d be better hidden from view of the door. Few people he knew visited this particular pub but he didn’t want to take his chances, didn’t want someone seeing him with the Anomaly known for wandering the streets muttering to himself like a lunatic. Six months ago, Arthur himself would have recoiled at the very thought. 

Roger, sensing his discomfort, slid in to face the door, allowing Arthur the ability to keep his face turned from anyone who might see. He couldn’t help but feel ashamed. Was it that obvious that Roger made him so uncomfortable?

“Whatever you want, you order,” Arthur instructed after clearing his throat. Roger eyed him wearily. 

“I don’t need your charity,” Roger grumbled, turning away to raise a finger at the bartender, calling Thomas over. “I have money.” 

Arthur knew he did, or at least suspected. He’d given Roger ten pounds last month, more than he’d originally thought would be enough. It had been getting colder, and he worried that Roger would meet the same fate that other Anomalies had met in winters previous, freezing on the streets or falling into the river late at night when trying to get home. He’d never be able to live with himself if Roger met the same fate, if Johnny would have to grow up to learn that his father had had the ability to help his soulmate and had failed them both for fear of stigma and ignorance. 

“My treat,” Arthur insisted awkwardly. “It’s the least I can do for...for my son in law.” 

The face Roger made was unreadable, but when Thomas came to take their order, he didn’t hesitate in ordering a large heaping of shepherd’s pie and a cup of tea. Arthur smiled faintly at him, ordering a side of buttered bread and a pint for himself. 

“You’re not going to eat?” Roger raised an eyebrow, reaching for the tin of serviettes and stuffing a handful into his coat pocket. Arthur pretended not to notice. 

“Lily’s setting a plate aside for me,” Arthur explained with a half shrug. “Tonight is bangers and mash.” 

“John’ll love that,” Roger said absentmindedly. “It’s his favorite.” 

Arthur felt like he’d been smacked in the face. Roger’s familiarity with his son, so freely given and without much thought to it, was a harsh reminder that he did not belong. He was not supposed to be here, he should be in his own home, in his own time, with his own John who probably knew how to make bangers and mash instead of being barely tall enough to look over the counter as his mother cooked. He grimaced. 

“Yes,” he coughed, carefully looking away. “It is.” 

Roger finally looked back at him, his hand still full of napkins, but inching closer to the sugar packets. Arthur did his best to pretend that he wasn’t watching his son in law steal from a pub that would have likely given freely if asked. 

“I was thinking,” Roger said slowly. “Julie, she’s about four, right?” 

Arthur startled. “Erm, yes, yes she is.” 

Roger nodded, humming thoughtfully. “You, uh, you might want to teach her to ride a bike, soon,” he said. “Because if you don’t, John is going to try. And, erm, that won’t be fun. For anyone. Particularly Julie. And Lily’s rhododendrons.” 

Arthur couldn’t help but grimace. “So that’s why Johnny’s been asking for me to put the training wheels back on his bike.” 

Roger grinned, quick, his teeth bright against the gritty blonde of his beard. “Also, if you don’t get around to teaching her soon, you’ll want to keep an eye on your wrenches. John’s too smart for his own good.” 

He closed his eyes and breathed out through his nose, slow and measured. Johnny had been asking questions regarding which wrench did which, and which size would fit his bike. He’d assumed it was harmless curiosity, but clearly— 

“That boy is going to be the death of me,” Arthur muttered, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Tell me, she doesn’t get too hurt, does she?” 

“No, no, no,” Roger shook his head, wincing. “Though, it will leave a scar. And she’ll hold it over his head for the rest of his life. Might be better for everyone’s sake if you cut it off at the pass before it turns into a favorite Christmas dinner topic.” 

“Julie does know how to hold a grudge,” Arthur sighed with a shake of his head. “I’ll do my best.” 

Roger nodded again, smiling slightly. Whatever may have been said next was cut short by Thomas returning with Roger’s dinner in hand, Arthur’s pint as well. Roger stared at the dinner for a moment, almost as though he was memorizing every little bit and piece, like he would never have it again. It took Arthur a moment to realize that he probably wouldn’t have it again, or at least, until the next time Arthur came calling. He felt sick again. 

“Go on,” Arthur encouraged. “It won’t bite.” 

The look he received was scornful, but not cruel. Carefully, Roger picked up the fork and took a small but measured bite, his eyes closing in ecstasy as he savored the taste. 

“You were right,” he laughed once he’d swallowed. “It’s delicious.” 

Arthur smiled, relieved. Toasting him with his beer, he watched Roger as made his way through the dish, each bite savored and tasted as though it was the finest feast in the land, pausing only for a sip of tea or to rip off a corner of bread to dip into the gravy. 

“So,” Roger said around a mouthful of food, cheek swollen with a large bite of bread. “What was it that made you come tonight? Was it the body in the river, or did you find something else?” 

Arthur choked on his beer, eyes stinging. Unperturbed, Roger continued eating his dinner, tearing off another chunk of bread. 

“Erm,” sputtered Arthur, taken aback by the bluntness of Roger’s questions. “I, uh—” 

“S’okay,” Roger shrugged. “Figured you’d be by to check when we heard the news. But as you can see, it wasn’t me.” 

Arthur made to steel his face, not wanting his relief to be evident. It had been his fear, when he’d heard the news that another homeless man had been pulled from the river yesterday morning. Rumor had it that it was a drunk, that they’d accidentally slipped down the bank while trying to relieve himself. But the fear that it had been Roger, Roger who had made a wrong turn in the middle of the night when searching and fallen to his death in the icy River Sence. 

“Both,” Arthur finally admitted, averting his gaze in favor of digging through his—_Johnny’s_— bag. “It was both.” 

Roger hummed thoughtful. Reaching for his napkin, he wiped his mouth and hands clean before sticking his hand palm up out over the table. “Give it here,” he said, almost bored. 

Wearily, Arthur handed him the book he’d checked out from the library, specially delivered from a library in Cambridge. He made careful not to touch Roger, more from habit that fear. Roger squinted at the title, his mouth curving down into a little frown as he nodded to himself. Flipping open the book to the page Arthur had marked, he hunkered down to read, his eyes flitting quickly across the page. 

Awkwardly, Arthur twiddled his thumbs, taking the occasional sip of beer now and again while he watched Roger read. After five minutes, Roger sighed, dropping the book to the table and rubbing his face. 

“Disproved,” Roger sighed. “The theory was considered sound until ‘63, if I remember correctly. There are three cases disproving the idea that diet had anything to do with anomalies— two women and a child, I believe. Neither of them had an affinity for shellfish, or for that matter, high levels of vitamin A in their bloodstream. Plus,” Roger shrugged with a cheeky little grin. “Neither did I.” 

“Oh.” Arthur slumped forward in disappointment. He had rather hoped that he might have found the missing link for Roger’s displacement. “Er, sorry.” 

“No need to apologize.” Roger took another large bite of pie, chewing slowly as he thought. “Though, I didn’t know that about the Nicks’ case. I’d always assumed that she’d just made it back on her own, not that there was a Welsh ritual done to hasten her return. Might have to look further into it—any chance the library would have books on medieval Welsh pagan rituals?” 

Arthur was taken aback; “Oh, no, no, I don’t know. I could look into it for you?” 

Roger waved off his offer with a flick of his hand. “Don’t worry, Denise can help me there. I can check tomorrow, after—” 

There was no need to finish his sentence. Tomorrow, after he’d made another loop through town, searching for another Anomaly. 

“I’ll write to the Cambridge library, see if they might have anything they’ll loan to us,” Arthur added, more as an afterthought. Roger grinned, quick as a flash and gone just as fast. 

“Cheers,” he said, toasting with his fork. He’d very nearly finished everything, but from the looks of it, was still ravenous. Arthur flagged down Thomas again, ordering them a second basket of bread to replace the one Roger had already eaten. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” Roger snapped, eyes narrowing. 

Arthur rolled his eyes, “Maybe I was the one hungry, Roger.” 

Pining him with another glare, Roger watched him for a moment before returning to his pie, scraping up the sides to get all the dried gravy and mash up. 

“I, uh, also, I heard an old wife's tale?” Arthur coughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Might be stupid—” 

“There’s usually some semblance of truth to old wives tales,” Roger interrupted thoughtfully. “Couldn’t hurt to hear.” 

Arthur looked both directions before leaning in carefully, lowering his voice; “Apparently, a token? From someone you’ve left behind, it helps. Can bring you back faster.” 

He hadn’t wanted to mention it before, hadn’t wanted to offer something of Johnny’s to Roger’s, didn’t want to give him false hope or blur the line between what was appropriate and what wasn’t. Afterall, Roger was a twenty-eight year old man, and Johnny was just turning seven. Soulmates or not, Anomaly be damned, Arthur didn’t want Roger anywhere near his son, just in case. Who knew, maybe whatever Anomaly Roger had fallen through would come back for Johnny, whisking him away even further behind. 

“If that’s the case,” Roger drawled, watching Arthur carefully. “Than I’d already be home.” 

Arthur startled, blinking at Roger in shock. “What?” 

“I have a token,” Roger explained slowly, as though he were explaining to Julie that no, she couldn’t have ice cream for breakfast. “Two, in fact. One from now and once from— from before.” 

Fury rolled over Arthur, irrational and quick with no time for forethought, and he leaned further into Roger’s space. “You have a token? From now? When the _fuck_ did you speak to my son? What did you take of his? What—” 

“Relax,” Roger snapped, leaning back into Arthur’s space. Out of reflex, Arthur flinched back, too many years of being warned against touching an Anomaly kicking in. The satisfactory glint in Roger’s eyes told Arthur it was purposeful. “You’ve already seen it.” 

Digging into his inside pocket once more, Roger pulled out his ever present stack of papers as well as a neatly folded, empty, Walker crisps packet. Pulling the piece of trash free, he placed it down on the table, carefully and lovingly smoothing it out. 

“_Here, I bought this for you_,” Roger smiled to himself, his tone full of love and admiration. He laughed, a wet little thing, before turning the bag to show Arthur. “He used to tease me about it, that I should be careful not to eat anything given to me by someone I didn’t know, soulmates be damned.” He fell silent for a moment, clearing his throat. “If only he knew that it wasn’t a stranger.” 

Arthur found himself growing choked up as well. “You’ve kept it?” 

Roger nodded, never taking his eyes off the scrap of trash. “It’s one of the few things I have, from him. The other—” He cut himself off with a laugh, finally looking up at Arthur. “You’re going to laugh. It’s stupid, but, well…” 

He didn’t need to explain himself. If Arthur had found himself hurtled almost twenty years into the past, he’d have held onto any and everything that had belonged to Lily. Roger dug back into his pocket, pulling out his worn leather wallet. Carefully, he flipped it open, turning it around to reveal a picture of two men smiling out in bright color. 

Arthur sucked in a breath, leaning in close. One was clearly Roger— cleaner, baby faced, and healthy, his blonde hair was shiny and short cut, unlike the mess it’d turned into from his year and a half living on the street. He looked happy; upon second glance, he looked _good_. Arthur could understand why his son might fall in love with him. The other was tall and thin, with chestnut brown hair that hung past his shoulders. The man was objectively good looking, a bright smile on his face reveal a little gap between his teeth that Arthur knew like the back of his hand. Every morning when he woke, he saw that gap, on Lily; his Lily. Johnny had just lost his front tooth, and took immense delight in shooting milk through the gap across the kitchen table at Julie. In nineteen year’s time, Johnny would have his own permanent gap, just like his mother. 

“Is that_ Johnny?_” Arthur gaped, completely disregarding any sense of self preservation as he grabbed the wallet out of Roger’s hand, tugging the picture closer. “His hair is so long!” 

Roger tossed his head back as he laughed. “Right? M’always pulling his hair out of my jumpers, it catches everywhere. He started growing it out when he was, gee, guess he was seventeen? Eighteen? Says it covers up his ears better.” 

Johnny had been begging them to let him grow out his hair; he was always complaining over the sight of his ears, moping that he thought they stuck out far too much. Arthur had told him he’d grow into them, but clearly it carried through to adulthood. 

Arthur traced the curve of his son’s face, eyes wet with unshed tears. “He looks like a man,” he whispered, reverent. 

“He’s a good man,” Roger agreed. “You raised him to be a good man.” 

Arthur sniffled, swiping under his eyes surreptitiously. He chuckled wetly, “Clearly didn’t raise him to have good taste in fashion.” 

“Oi!” Roger laughed. “Half of what he’s wearing is _mine_, thank you very much.” 

“Seems like his soulmate’s got the same bad taste,” teased Arthur. He found it weirdly easy to joke with Roger, something he’d never have expected after their first disastrous meeting. 

“That we might be able to agree on,” Roger grimaced. 

There was a moment where neither knew what to say. Arthur couldn’t take his eyes off the image of Johnny, grown up and handsome next to his soulmate, even if he’d wanted to. It was surreal; his Johnny was at home, probably finishing up his evening chores before getting ready for bed. His Johnny still begged for a storybook before bed, and couldn’t sleep without the hall lights on. His Johnny had just lost a tooth and had eagerly tried to stay awake to catch the Tooth Fairy in action. His Johnny was a child, a baby practically. But to Roger, he was a man, someone waiting desperately for him to come home. 

“Tell me about him?” Arthur asked, desperate. “What does he do? What does he like? Does he still call home?” 

He could see Roger hesitate, was about to beg, when Roger nodded. “He’s an engineer, works at a recording studio, if you can believe it. Works with all the best recording artists— but you’d never know, he’s not one to brag. Too humble. He still doesn’t like green beans, refuses to even try them, no matter how they’re cooked. Loves to fiddle with the radio, the telly, anything with wires, really. He hated the layout of our flat, said the electricals were shite? So he completely stripped them and redid the whole of it on a whim. I could have killed him— you should have seen the sight of our flat, wires hanging from the ceiling and poking out of the wall. I thought for sure we’d never get our deposit back, but he managed it, somehow. And he’s right, everything works better now.” 

Arthur laughed, he sounded just like himself. 

Roger grabbed another piece of bread while he spoke, eyes twinkling as he spun stories of Johnny all grown up, getting into trouble and charming his way back out of it. Arthur hung onto every word, desperate to hear more about his little boy. 

In the middle of one sordid tale one of the barmaids came to grab Roger’s plate which had only a bite or two left. Roger immediately stopped talking, reaching out to snatch the plate out of her hands, clutching at it as though his life depended on it. 

“I’m not done,” he barked at her, glaring furiously. Gone was the happy-go-lucky man who waxed on about his soulmate. In his place was a half-starved man defending what was probably his only hot meal in weeks. 

“I’m sorry,” Arthur rushed, looking up at the startled woman. “Sorry, he’s still working on it—” 

“Betty!” Thomas snapped as he rushed across the bar. Arthur blanched but steadied himself, ready to defend Roger’s behaviour. 

“Look,” Arthur said placatingly. “This is all just a misunderstanding—” 

“I’ve told you before not to take their plates before they’re finished,” Thomas continued, completely ignoring Arthur and Roger. “When he’s good and ready he’ll let you know!” 

“I’m sorry,” said Betty, still nervous, her cheeks flushed in embarrassment. “I didn’t think—” 

“S’fine,” Roger grumbled, though he still hadn’t let go of the plate. “Sorry.” 

Betty fled to the back kitchen without even a backwards glance. 

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Thomas sighed, rubbing his eyes with one large hand. “She’s new, doesn’t know how it goes. Can I get you anything as an apology?” 

Roger scowled, sinking into his seat. Arthur was slightly relieved to realize that it wasn’t just him who sparked Roger’s ire when offered charity. 

“Yes,” said Arthur, defiant. “We’d like some bread, unbuttered please. And some cheese if you have it.” 

Thomas eyed him carefully, but did as he was asked. 

“I don’t need anything else,” Roger grumbled. For the briefest of moments Arthur could picture him, as a petulant child, scowling at his mother and fighting the order to take a nap. 

“Then you can give it to someone who does need it,” Arthur said simply. “Or you can save it until tomorrow.” 

Roger picked at the edge of the wooden table, tracing at the carving of a flying cross someone had left behind. 

“Thanks,” he said quiet, sullen. Arthur nodded. 

After a moment’s pause, Arthur cleared his throat. “Is there...is there anything else you need? Another toothbrush, or a new coat?” 

Roger shook his head, still not looking him in the eye. “Still got my old toothbrush. Thanks for that, by the way. N’my coat’s doing fine.” 

“Alright,” Arthur hummed. “Lily, erm, she’s been going on a knitting kick, now that we’re getting closer to Christmas. She’s made a few hats, they’re nothing special, but if you’d like—” 

Roger watched as Arthur dug the lumpy knit hat from Johnny’s bag, offering the forest green cap across the table. Wearily, Roger took it from him, his fingers gentle as he examined the knit. 

“Johnny, actually, um, chose the color,” Arthur blurted out. “It’s—” 

“—his favorite,” Roger finished, awe in his voice. “I know.” 

Of course Roger knew. Roger knew almost everything about Johnny, the same way Arthur knew almost everything about Lily. They were soulmates, after all. 

“Thank you,” Roger smiled, eyes wet and voice reverent. “Truly, thank you.” 

There was nothing for Arthur to say other than to nod, throat thick with a familiar emotion he, nonetheless, couldn’t quite place. 

“I’m sorry,” Arthur gasped, feeling as though he was being swallowed by all the fear and sadness he’d been holding within since he’d met Roger. “I’m so terribly sorry that this has happened.” 

Roger looked poleaxed, like he wasn’t expecting to hear Arthur say that. “Erm—” 

“I read in the papers,” Arthur continued with his voice breathless as he struggled to speak. “Apparently in Inverness, there’s been an onslaught of Anomalies, I can send you there, could pay your way—” 

“No,” snapped Roger. Arthur recoiled. “No, I’m not leaving here. You can’t make me, I won’t go.” 

“I wouldn’t—” 

“There’s no guarantee that if I go there I’ll get back to him, so I’m going to stay _right here_ until I find one and I _will_ get back to him. I will, even if I’m fifty. I don’t care, so long as I see him again. So no; no to Inverness, you can’t make me!” 

Roger’s voice was harsh and cold, but it was nothing compared to the glare he was leveling Arthur’s way. If Arthur were hard pressed, he’d say that Roger was willing to kill if it meant getting it across that he wouldn’t be leaving. Arthur stammered his way through an apology, desperate to clear the air. 

“It was just a suggestion—” 

“_No_. No. I’ll find one,” Roger promised. “I’ll find one and I’ll get home to him, you’ll see. I have to--I have to. And I will.” 

“Alright, Roger, I believe you,” Arthur agreed, keeping his voice soft. “I’ll do anything I can to help.” 

Roger eyed him wearly, as though terrified Arthur might suggest something else. He opened his mouth as though to speak, then thought better of it, watching Arthur with a calculating stare. 

“There is something,” Roger finally said, reaching back into his jacket. “I can’t afford the stamps, but I need these posted. They’re important.” 

Carefully, as though holding a treasure, Roger held out a stack of envelopes, slightly crumpled around the edges and with the look of having been thrown out and then retrieved. In neat cursive letters, Roger had printed out the names of different papers all around the country. 

“What—?” Arthur squinted down at the letters, confused. When he raised one— made out to the _Newcastle Evening Chronicle_— to read the address better in the dank pub lighting, he felt a collection of coins rattle around. “Are these—did you put money in here?” 

Roger scowled, “Of course. I need to pay them, my bill’s overdue.” 

“Roger! Where are you getting the money for this?” Arthur yelped, raising another envelope— this on to the _Birmingham Post_— to the light, watching as a five pound note was illuminated. “This— this is a lot of money, Roger, what are you— why aren’t you— this is _absurd!_” 

Roger leaned forward, snatching the envelopes out of his hand. “All you had to do was say no,” he hissed, practically snarling. 

“I’m not saying no, but Roger. Roger _why?_” 

Scowling, Roger stormed off from the table. For a brief moment, Arthur was afraid he was going to leave, that he would never see him again, but his fears were aleaved when Roger returned, an abandoned copy of the _Oadby_ Times in hand. Flipping through the pages with too much rage to be considered careful, he slapped the paper down in front of Arthur, jabbing his finger against the classifieds. 

There, in tiny script, was an ad. 

_Deacy, well aren’t you a sight for sore eyes? I promise I’ll make my way home. Love, Roger_

Arthur stared at the text, so small and innocuous, he might have missed it had it not been thrust under his nose. But there, in plain black and white, were the words he knew by heart, the words he had seen every day written in easy looping cursive across Johnny’s chest, the same looping cursive on the envelopes. 

“Deacy?” he asked, voice small when he finally regained the ability to speak. 

“S’a nickname,” Roger explained. “Wanted it to be obvious that it’s me.” 

“How—” 

“Can’t hurt,” Roger shrugged, picking again at the wood of the table. “Maybe he sees it, maybe he doesn’t. But one thing I know is that every morning, before—” _Before I fell back in time. Before I was ripped away from him. Before everything changed._ “—He’d wake up and the first thing he’d do after a piss and a shower, he’d sit himself down and read the paper front to back before doing the crossword. And...I know it’s in the future, I know that it’s a shot in the dark, but I need to try _something_. Something to let him know I’m alive. A mark, I guess. A sign that I’m still here. That I’m trying.” 

Arthur felt as though he couldn’t breathe. “Roger—” 

“Just—just send them?” Roger pleaded, eyes wide and desperate. “Please?” 

He hesitated, just for a moment, before agreeing, gathering up the envelopes to hold in his hands like they were the most precious treasure. And to Roger, they were. He visibly relaxed when he heard Arthur, his shoulders lumping in relief. Arthur hadn’t even noticed how tense he’d been; he felt vaguely ill. 

Thomas returned with the bill, which Arthur was quick to pay, and a bundle of bread and cheese, which was quickly handed off to Roger. Arthur stuffed the envelopes down into Johnny’s bag, watching from the corner of his eye as Roger carefully placed the hat on his head, his fingers smoothing over the knitted edge before he carefully piled his layers back on again. Together, they made their way to the front door, Arthur raising a hand in farewell to Thomas before bracing himself for the bitter November cold, Roger trailing behind him. 

He’d been prepared to escort him back to his old alley, but when he started to walk, Roger did not follow. Arthur turned, confusion evident on his face. 

“I’m gonna— gonna keep walking,” Roger said, jerking his head in the opposite direction. “Who knows? Might get lucky this time.” 

Arthur pulled a face, stepping closer. “Wait, Roger, no, it’s getting cold. Why don’t you go back—” 

“Just gotta finish a bit more,” Roger interrupted with a shake of his head. “Then I’ll head back.” 

He didn’t know what to say. There was so much he wanted to say, to ask, to warn, but nothing came out. Roger started to walk away, his shoulders hunched against the cold, when Arthur startled. 

“Roger, wait!” He turned back, brow arched. Arthur jogged closer to him, digging through his pocket for the small wad of cash he’d tucked there earlier, for Roger. 

“Please, take this,” he insisted, all but shoving the now crumpled notes into Roger’s hand. 

Roger shook his head, trying to refuse, to step away, but Arthur insisted, grabbing his wrist and forcing him to accept the money lest it fly away. 

“It’s getting cold,” Arthur rambled. “Make sure you find a place indoors, alright? And the church, every Sunday and Wednesday night they have bingo, its free. You can go, get a cup of tea, warm up. I can’t remember the schedule but they’ll have a soup kitchen, you can get a free meal. And, and, I’ll talk to Thomas, he might need some more help around the pub, you can pick up some hours—” 

“I’ll be okay,” Roger interrupted, though not unkindly. “I’ll be fine. I’m going to find an Anomaly, and I’ll get home to John. But I’ll be okay.” 

“The cold—” 

“I’ve got places I can go.” 

“Don’t go near the river,” Arthur gasped, suddenly terrified. “Please, don’t, I know that it looks safe but in the winter it gets slippery, you could fall in. Please, don’t—” 

_Don’t make me have to fish your body from the river. Don’t make me have to look my son in the eyes and know that his soulmate is gone. Don’t die before my boy gets to see you one more time._

“I’ll be okay, Mr. Deacon,” Roger repeated gently. “I promise, I’ll be okay.” 

Arthur nodded. He didn’t want Roger to leave his sight, and yet he knew that there was nothing else he could do. Roger had Anomalies to hunt, and Arthur had a plate of dinner and his family waiting for him. _Johnny_ was waiting for him, just as _John_ was waiting for Roger. 

He stuck out his hand, watching Roger’s eyes widen in shock. Arthur had never voluntarily touched Roger, had never allowed himself to risk getting sent through his own Anomaly. But now, now when Arthur knew that this might be his last chance to see Roger, to let him know that he cared, he couldn’t let the moment pass without saying a proper goodbye. 

Roger’s hands were still warm from the pub, rough from a year and a half living out on the streets, slightly chapped from the wind. If Roger were still around next month, Arthur would bring him a pot of Lily’s hand cream, if only to help him continue making his maps through the winter months. Or, maybe he could get her to knit him gloves to match his hat. 

“You take care of my boy,” Arthur instructed, voice gruff. “You make sure he’s okay and that he knows that he’s loved.” 

Roger’s eyes looked suspiciously wet; Arthur suspected his own were, too. 

“I will, I promise.” 

“You hurry back to him, now, you hear? I don’t want you hanging around here much longer,” Arthur continued, ignoring the lump in his throat. “You get home to him and you make sure this never happens again.” 

“I swear, Mr. Deacon, when I see him again I’ll never let him out of my sight,” Roger promised. 

_I couldn’t have asked for someone better to love my Johnny_, Arthur thought. It seemed too raw, too real, to say allowed. So he didn’t. He let go of Roger’s hand carefully, and did his best to smile. 

“You have a good night, Roger,” he said. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.” 

“You too, Mr. Deacon,” Roger smiled. For a moment, Arthur could see the shadow of his past self in the curve of his lips, but then it was gone, replaced by the hard worn pain of being somewhere he shouldn’t be. “Give my love to your family.” 

Arthur nodded once more before turning away, stuffing his hands in his jacket pocket as he made his way back down the street, his collar turned to the wind. At the corner, right before he turned away, he looked back, watching as Roger scribbled away on his map, counting his steps back home to John.

*

The bangers and mash were warming in the oven when he got home, the chill thawing from his bones the moment he stepped through the front door of their home. Shrugging off his jacket and Johnny’s bag, he hung his coat up next to Johnny and Julie’s smaller ones, his nearly engulfing theirs on the peg.

“Arthur?” Lily called from upstairs, her voice just loud enough to be heard, but not enough to wake the children. “Is that you?” 

“Yes, dear,” Arthur called back, fetching a handmade pot holder— a gift from Johnny last Christmas, still awkwardly lopsided but a rich forest green, the same as Roger’s hat— and pulling his dinner from the oven. 

Settling down at the kitchen table, he dug into the food, blinking back a swell of emotion at the thought of his Johnny and Roger, younger and full of joy, sitting at their own table together to eat. Who knew if Roger would ever get that chance again? 

“Hello, dear,” Lily smiled, coming into the kitchen and kissing Arthur’s cheek. 

“Did I tell you today that I love you?” Arthur asked, blinking up at his soulmate, looking at her just in case it was the last time he’d ever get to again. Lily frowned, her brow furrowing. 

“Yes,” she said, trying her best to keep her tone light. “But it wouldn’t hurt to hear it again.” 

“I love you,” Arthur whispered, pressing a kiss to her palm. “I love you.” 

“What brought this on, darling?” Lily cooed, running her hands through his hair before tilting his face up to her’s, her eyes worried. “Did something happen at work?” 

Arthur nodded, leaning into her hold. “An...an Anomaly,” he murmured. “Sent back twenty years. He’s been here for over one year already, doesn’t know if he’ll make it back. Statistically...statistically, any Anomaly that stays in the wrong time for a whole year will never make it home again.” 

It was that very statistic that had weighed so heavily on his shoulders. Roger, by his own count, had been there for a year and three months, give or take. Every single article, every single book that Arthur read, had told him that after one year, the likelihood of Roger every getting back to his present time was minuscule at best. He’d be a scientific miracle. 

Against him, Lily drew in a sharp breath. “Oh, Arthur…” 

“I just keep thinking,” Arthur continued, his voice wet. “What if...what if it were me?” 

“Don’t,” Lily gasped. “Don’t, don’t say that. Don’t even think that! It won’t happen, never. I wouldn’t let it. I would rip apart space and time for you, Arthur Deacon.” 

He thought of Roger, endlessly wandering the streets of Oadby, tracing each and every step in the hopes that it would take him back to John, and he had to close his eyes. Roger was doing everything in his power to get home to his son. He would walk to the ends of the earth if it meant seeing his John once more time. Arthur choked on a sob, twisting to press his face into Lily’s stomach, wrapping his arms tight around her and holding on as if he, too, would be ripped away. 

“It’s okay,” Lily murmured above him. “It’s okay.” 

He had to believe that it would be okay; that everything would work out for Johnny, statistics be damned. He let himself be held as he breathed through the pain, forcing him to think of anything other than the lonely future that lay ahead for his son.

*

Arthur made his way up the stairs slowly, stopping on each step to admire the pictures he and Lily had hung on the walls showing their family’s growth. From his and Lily’s wedding to Johnny’s first birthday, big eyes staring up at the camera from underneath a mop of fine curls. Johnny holding Julie, fresh from the hospital, his smile cautious but happy. Julie’s first Christmas pageant, dressed as an angel, with Johnny dressed as a shepherd behind her. Johnny and Julie’s school pictures, maturing from babies to children before his very eyes. He reached up, tracing the stuck out point of Johnny’s ear, remembering how in the future he’d grow his hair long to cover them up. It wasn’t until then that he realized that Johnny would inherit his hair— chestnut brown and fluffy, prone to frizzing when it rained. 

Johnny would become a man in no time, he’d grow to insist on going by _John_ instead. He’d go off to university, get a degree, fall in love, start a career. He’d have a family and a life one day, be his own person. He’d be so much more than Arthur ever could have imagined. He’d be a good man; Roger had assured him. 

He prayed it was true. 

The stairs creaked under his feet as he worked his way to the second floor, treading carefully as he tiptoed into Julie’s room. She was sound asleep on her front, her stuffed cat clutched under her arm as she drooled into her pillow. Arthur watched the steady rise and fall of her chest for a minute or two before he moved to drop a kiss onto the top of her head, carefully tucking the blanket under her chin to keep out any chill. Sneaking back out of the room, he made sure to leave the door open a crack lest she wake up afraid. 

Outside of Johnny’s door, he hesitated, just a moment. For a split second he worried that when he opened the door he’d find a man in the room, not a child. A man he could recognize but would not know. He opened the door, not knowing what to expect. 

Johnny was sprawled out in bed, the covers kicked down by his feet and his pajama top ridden up to reveal just the edge of his soulmark. _Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?_

Arthur took the time to just drink in the sight of his son sleeping so peacefully, unaware of what was waiting for him in his future. He wanted to freeze time, wanted to keep Johnny as he was, sound asleep and dreaming; peaceful. He wanted to remember Johnny like this forever. A child, unaware of what was to come. 

He moved to sit on the edge of the bed, slowly settling in so as not to jostle him awake. In his sleep, Johnny murmured something inaudible, smacking his lips as he twitched, settling back into his pillow. Arthur couldn’t help but run his hand over Johnny’s hair, smiling through tears as he admired his son. His boy. 

Rubbing at his nose with the back of his hand, Arthur shook his head, leaning down to drop a kiss onto his forehead, taking a moment to breathe in the scent of baby shampoo. Pulling away, he tugged Johnny’s top back down, smoothing his hand over the slightly rounded curve of Johnny’s stomach. As he shifted to tuck him back into bed, Johnny stirred again, waking enough to blink heavily up at him. 

“Daddy…?” Johnny murmured, rolling over enough to grab at the leg of Arthur’s pants. “When’d you get home?” 

“Just now,” Arthur lied, leaning back down to once more brush his hand over Johnny’s head. 

“Mummy read me our story,” Johnny yawned as he knuckled at his eye. “But she doesn’t do the voices like you.” 

“Oh?”

“Mhmm,” Johnny sighed, rubbing his cheek against the pillow. “Tomorrow, will you come home ‘fore bed?” 

“Of course,” Arthur promised. “Tell you what. What if tomorrow you help me teach Julie how to ride a bike?” 

At that, Johnny’s eyes opened wide, his gap toothed smile practically blinding. “Really?” 

“Really,” Arthur laughed. “Julie needs a big kid to help her not be scared on the bike.” 

“Oh, Daddy, thank you!”Johnny cried, shuffling over to throw is arms around Arthur, holding him as tightly as he could. “Can I use the wrench to put on the training wheels?” 

“We’ll see about _that_,” chuckled Arthur. “But maybe you can help.” 

Johnny nodded, eyes still bright. He opened his mouth to say something else, but was cut off by a jaw breaking yawn. 

“Let’s get you back to bed,” Arthur whispered, gently helping lower Johnny back into bed. 

“M’not tired,” Johnny lied through another yawn, rubbing at his eyes. 

“Course not,” Arthur murmured. “But big boys need their sleep, especially if they’re going to help me use the wrench.” 

“Mmm, okay, Daddy,” Johnny mumbled, his eyes heavy. “G’night Daddy, I love you.” 

“Love you too, son,” Arthur hummed as he pulled the quilt up over his shoulders, making sure that he was tucked in safe and warm. He watched as Johnny struggled to stay awake, his efforts growing futile until, with a final yawn, he rolled over, nuzzled his face into the pillow, and drifted off to sleep. 

Arthur stayed just a bit longer, watching over him. 

When enough time had passed, he slowly made his way out of the room, never taking his eyes off the sight of Johnny sleeping. He hesitated just a moment longer before he closed the door behind him, leaving only a slight crack to let in the hall light. Just in case Johnny needed them in the middle of the night. 

As he slid between the sheets of his own bed, Lily sound asleep next to him, Arthur couldn’t help but think of Roger. It was cold outside—was Roger warm? Had he managed to find a place inside to sleep, or was he still in the alley? Or, better yet, had he managed to find an Anomaly against all odds? 

He rolled over to curl up against Lily, tucking his face in between her shoulder blades and squeezing his eyes closed tight. Downstairs, tucked into his briefcase, were the letters Roger had written. Fifteen in total, fifteen letters that would be the only sign that Roger was still alive, still holding on. He made a mental note to post them in the morning on his way to work. 

And, he thought right on the edge of sleep, he’d be sure to include fifteen letters of his own, each asking for a subscription for every single newspaper Roger had written to. 

Just in case.

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is sad. sad sad sad fic. so sad. time travel sad fic. sadness. song title stolen from _time in a bottle_ by jim croce
> 
> there is a longer fic to come but it will be coming after _damn your love damn your lies_
> 
> log your complains 


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